


Legacy

by Verayne



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Hate Sex, M/M, Ollie POV, episode typical language, malcolm's use of language is both horrifying and liberating, the king is dead long live the king
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:29:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26161924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verayne/pseuds/Verayne
Summary: Sometimes we don't leave the legacy we intend to.
Relationships: Ollie Reeder/Malcolm Tucker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> So at this point I'm just resigning myself to writing exclusively about the shows I was too young to appreciate back in the early 00's. This was mostly a personal challenge to see if I could get Malcolm's voice right - I think it came out okay??
> 
> Spoilers for the Season 4 finale.

* * *

Ollie's not sure when he first _really_ set his sights on becoming Malcolm's successor. Not as something realistic, anyway, as opposed to idle, illicit fantasies back in the days of DoSA, so awed and terrified of Malcolm's ongoing reign that it had felt akin to contemplating treason. Or possibly some kind of dodgy wank-bank material.

The moment he saw Malcolm stroll back into DoSAC headquarters after his first firing springs to mind, as a possible turning point. God, Ollie had been so close to freedom he'd nearly tasted it. He'd felt like some kind of abuse victim stumbling into light and fresh air, only to bump into his own captor out in the garden and be steered smoothly back inside with a spidery hand on his shoulder and a bit of Scottish slang. One word from Malcolm and he'd jumped to obey without a second thought, like muscle memory, and before he'd known what was happening he was under a desk sorting wires for him while Malcolm hid a sneer and joked about office blowjobs. Ollie distinctly remembers not being sure which one of them he’d hated more.

Or possibly when he'd been pulled into Malcolm's conspiracy to oust Nicola. That was probably closer to accurate, actually, because Malcolm had always been a bloody walking trauma before then, but at least his evil superpowers had generally been used for the good of the party. Horrific to have as an ally, frankly, but damn right devastating to face across the political battlefield as an enemy. Ollie had taken cold comfort in standing behind his line of fire in relative safety.

But then, of course, the man's careful, purposeful assassination of his own party leader had brought home the revelation that being on Malcolm's side didn't necessarily guarantee protection from him. Malcolm had his own side. No, forget sides - he oversaw the fucking playing field. Machiavelli's spiritual successor if ever there was one, moving them all about like chess pieces as opposed to leading a charge into battle.

Ironically, Ollie thinks it might have been Malcolm who gave him the insight about what he had to do. Yeah, he even remembers the moment. Sat in his hospital gown and circulation socks, holding an unsigned postcard in Sam's familiar handwriting, that read only, _Congratulations on your first confirmed kill_.

He's not sure if it ever would have occurred to him to turn the metaphorical gun on Malcolm himself, without all his valuable tutelage in the art of treachery.

* * *

"Ollie! There's my favourite little domestic terrorist, back from blowing up the careers of unsuspecting daft bints. Look at that, not a scratch on you."

"Yeah, let's maybe not go shouting about domestic terrorism down the halls of a government building, eh Malcolm? Specially with your accent."

"My-? Why, I'm not fucking Irish, am I? Not fucking IRA, fuck's sake."

"Right, well, whatever. Even so."

"Did you see Nic'la on the way up? Inspect your handywork? Compare war wounds? Mind you, she's got you there, hasn't she. Your piddly little belly-scratch not much compared to the gaping fucking viscera you and I just made of her sad, steaming, political corpse."

"Jesus, Malcolm... No, I haven't seen her. Think I heard vaguely panicked sobbing from the stairwell though, I just assumed she'd escaped the heavies with tranq guns you set on her. Pictured them all running up and down floors like a scene out of _Scooby Doo_."

" _Heavies_ , who needs heavies when I've got _you_. Hand of the fucking King, might get you a little pin."

"God, is this... is this what you look like when you're _happy_? Don't think I've ever seen your face do that before - oh, it's actually freaking me out a bit. Does it hurt?"

"Aye, well take a good fucking look, because I tell you now you're too much of an annoying twat to be seeing it often. Savour the moment. Remember it when you touch yourself in the naughty place, yeah?"

* * *

He does, sometimes.

How fucking pathetic is that?

* * *

In other, more brutally honest moments, he reckons actually he's giving himself far too much credit by claiming the killing blow. Not that he didn't take the shot, he did, but Malcolm's never met a bullet he couldn't catch in his fucking teeth like some dead-eyed Terminator, if he really wanted to. The man's always been an advocate of bowing out early, hasn't he? Ollie gets less and less sure he successfully committed a political kill, and more than a little suspicious he only aided in some bizarre organised suicide.

Trust Malcolm to take even that from him.

* * *

"What, you're... really going to go in there and just admit to leaking? Forgive me if I'm missing the obvious, Malcolm, but isn't that the shady, illegal behaviour we're all doing our best to cover up here?"

"And that, right there, is why you're still answering to me. You still don't get it, do you? Don't see the _bigger picture_. Everybody leaks. And everybody _knows_ that everybody leaks. It's how the game's played. They can't have me for it without having half the British government."

"Yeah, but -"

"Look, there's leaking, and then there's _leaking_. I can tell you now, no one gives two solid shits that I told the papers about Nic'la and her moronic bloody bat people. No one fucking cares. So, you just toddle on in there, sit yourself down, and regurgitate the words I give you to say, yes?"

"And you're sure there's nothing in all of this that could come back on us?"

"Course there fucking is, that's why I'm giving them this drivel. Try to keep the fuck up."

* * *

It's nearly three weeks after Malcolm’s much publicised arrest and resignation that Ollie works up the nerve to go see him. He's not even sure why. Stockholm Syndrome, probably.

Malcolm hasn't spent so much as a day in jail yet, of course, and likely never will thanks to the cabal of equally dead-eyed lawyers he keeps to heel. So Ollie finds him at his home, wavering only slightly when the door opens and he finds himself on the receiving end of Malcolm's perfectly blank stare, before the other man steps back and lets him in without a word. He has the fleeting concern, as he crosses the threshold, that he should probably have put his affairs in order before coming.

He's not sure what he's expecting to find inside. Dungeon décor, maybe. An altar where he makes his blood sacrifices. But it's nice, actually. Soft furnishings, lots of light, the smell of something cooking. Malcolm in a sweater and reading glasses. Ollie hovers awkwardly in the other man's comfy looking living room, still in his coat. There's a loose collection of handwritten pages on the coffee table, and for lack of anything else to say or do he tilts his head to squint at them. Malcolm makes no effort to stop him, looking on with a kind of malevolent tolerance.

Turns out it's the opening draft of a memoir.

* * *

"Oh my god, please tell me that's not what I think it is. Malcolm. You _can't_."

"Well, that's where you're wrong, isn't it."

"You said you wouldn't do a memoir! You said - go out with dignity, head held high. What happened to that?"

" _You_ happened to that, you pasty-faced, sweat-stained, simpering little _twat_! Fucking Iago with fucking acne, that's what you are! I asked you for one thing - _one twatting thing_ \- and instead you set the bloody press on me. What was that, making sure the knife was in deep enough that I stopped twitching?"

"I _had_ to, didn't I! Otherwise it was just... Dan bloody Miller stood there looking like a stupid smug prick. Yeah, great new start for the Opposition. Look. I'm sorry, alright? You just made the better story - and don't even pretend you wouldn't have done the exact same thing!"

"Oh aye, look at him, thinking he can step into daddy's shoes. Well, _darlin' boy_ , here's hoping you picked up a few more tips and tricks than that, because if you _honestly_ think you can take my place, take the fucking crown, you don't have the faintest _idea_ of the shitstorm I am about to unleash on you and your sad-sack party. And the other one, while I'm at it. Why not?"

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ, I feel like I've just walked in on you polishing a fucking semi-automatic, muttering about how you don't like Mondays. How many people is this supposed to take out?"

"Many as I can think of, fuck it. It'll be a reckoning. Topple governments, that'll be my legacy. You forget, I know where all the fucking bodies are buried - not to mention all the cocaine and hookers. Might as well have a bit of fun with it, eh? See who's left standing after."

"God, Malcolm, _don't_ -"

"Oh don't get your knickers in a twist, I'll leave out the time you gave me a blowie in Number 10, no one needs that image. Anyway, I'm only writing about the people who matter, so you're basically in the clear."

* * *

It's only happened twice, and neither time was in Number 10, which is the only reason he knows Malcolm's taking the piss. Although he's not actually sure if that's a good or a bad thing, whether it means the other man's more or less likely to suicide-bomb his own reputation just to get at Ollie's. But then again, he probably doesn't need to. Not like Ollie hasn't done plenty of other dodgy things on Malcolm's orders that can be exposed with the leisurely flick of a pen. Taking pot shots at his sad excuse for a sex life is hardly necessary.

'Sex life' is definitely overstating it, anyway. Looking back, it feels closer to some kind of psychological self-harm, if he's honest. Down on his knees in some crappy hotel bathroom, desperately hard, stinging from both the force of Malcolm's cock in his throat and the steady stream of acerbic, drawling commentary from above. It burns just to remember, something shamed and angry and turned on squirming in his stomach even now.

Probably why Malcolm mentioned it at all, malicious bastard.

* * *

"Malcolm - please - I want -"

"Up. Over the sink, over the _fucking_ sink, there you go. Where's your wallet? Tell you what, this had better not be the same ancient condom you've had in here since you were twelve, hoping Sarah Jane would let you stick it in her round the back of school -"

"Fucking hell, don't you ever actually stop?! Christ. Oh, no, not the hand soap, no, _come on_ -!"

"Shut up. Eyes on the mirror, yeah, there's a good lad. Look at that, turns out you do have a use after all. Who fucking knew."

"Nngh, wait - fuck! I can't - I just - Oh, Jesus, Malcolm, _fuck_!"

"Stop talking, for fuck's sake. Trying to picture Sharon Stone here, and you're very much ruining the mental image."

" _Fuck_ you."

"You should be so lucky, darlin'."

* * *

When he finally leaves Malcolm's well-kept, softly-lit house, he's no closer to figuring out why he bothered showing up in the first place, but at least he's inadvertently caught a glimpse of the threat on the horizon. Actually, he wouldn't be surprised if Malcolm orchestrated it that way, through whatever arcane powers-that-be he owes firstborns to. Has to keep himself in the game somehow, doesn't he? Can never just admit it's over, he's done, and go bleed out quietly.

Malcolm could topple governments with the secrets he knows, fair enough. Let him try. Ollie has indeed knelt at the feet of the master, for more reasons than one, and he is just as much Malcolm's lasting legacy in all of this, god help his shriveled soul.

He's shot to kill before. Malcolm showed him how.


End file.
